BEHIND THE SCENES with Fred Wilpon, Jeff Wilpon, and Sandy Alderson: A One-Act Play

Scene: Fred Wilpon’s office. Fred Wilpon sits at a ramshackle desk made of old boards, duct tape, and cinderblocks. He gazes misty-eyed through the dusty pages of the 1954 Lafayette High School Yearbook. Fred’s son, Jeff Wilpon, is sprawled on the floor, surrounded by crayons and scrap paper. Jeff is wearing a white shirt, loose tie, and jacket with matching schoolboy shorts, looking like Angus Young’s pasty-faced twin. A knock on the door and in enters . . .

SANDY ALDERSON: Fred, I’m glad I caught you.

FRED WILPON (ducks under desk, speaks in a ghost-like voice): Fred is not heeeeere. Go awaaaaay.

SANDY: Don’t worry, Fred. I’m not here to ask for money.

FRED (returns to chair): That’s good, because that ship has sailed, my friend! The cow is out of the barn! That shit’s been shot! Can I get you something to eat. A cracker? A glass of water? Tap, of course.

SANDY: No, I’m fine, thanks. I realize that times are tough.

FRED (muses): Did I ever tell you how Omar used to come into this office? I swear he used to pull some kind of voodoo magic on me. He’d start talking and I’d go into a trance . . . and before I knew it, I was writing checks to Third World countries. That’s why I like you so much, Sandy. You never ask for money! What’s that phrase you use so often?

FRED (laughs): That whole speech you gave the other day about wanting to keep R.A. Dickey, and how much you like him, but then leaking the organization’s “fears” — quote/unquote — about his age and injuries and -–“

SANDY (laughs): Don’t forget the anonymous GM tipster who opined that Dickey will demand 4 years at $15 million per.

FRED: That was you?!

SANDY (grins, blows on fingernails): It’s not lying, exactly. I see it more as the art of rolling up your sleeves and gently massaging a pile of poop. You’ve got to get your hands in the muck. Well, not my hands! That’s why we pay Ricciardi and DePodesta.

FRED (points): It’s like every time you talk about Jason Bay still possibly being a productive player!

SANDY (shakes head): No, sorry. He won’t surrender those photographs. Really, Fred. You should be more discreet.

FRED: Blackmail’s a bitch. You’re so right, Sandy. You know I love that name, Sandy. I used to play ball with a fellow by the name of Sandy. Turned out to be a pretty good ballplayer, too. I ever tell you that story?

FRED: Now you have to make my boy happy, Sandy. You know what little Jeffy loves, don’t you?

SANDY: No, absolutely not!

FRED: Just this once.

SANDY: Fred, I already let Jeffy make a trade last winter! Remember? Angel Pagan for Torres and Ramirez! Who on EARTH would want Andres Torres??!! We can’t afford another lame-brained move like . . . I mean, miscalculation, like that.

FRED: Don’t be so glum. You know this is a family business, Sandy. Why even my son Bruce was instrumental in helping us scout Kaz Matsui. Remember Kaz? Talked funny?

SANDY: Talked funny? Oh, Christ, Fred. He was Japanese!

FRED (whispers): Oh, I thought he was gay. Threw like a girl. Even I didn’t understand why Bruce wanted to move rocket-armed Jose to second base.

SANDY (bends down, pats Jeff on head, sighs with resignation): I suppose I could let the little tyke sign another free agent. What harm could it do?

FRED (demurs): I don’t know, that stuff costs money. I don’t have my good old pal Bernie anymore. Guy used to practically print the stuff — ho, ho! I still think you never should have let my brain-addled son sign Frank Francisco. I mean, come on, Frank Fran-Freaking-cisco!

SANDY: Um, that’s was me.

FRED: Well, the idiocy of signing D.J. Carrasco to a 2-year deal. Only a certified moron would have –

Not a theater lover, are you, MetsResearchInstitute? Cats? Les Miz? Nothing? Seriously, just offering up a little lighthearted satire — besides, anytime I can take out my frustrations on Jeff, I’m all in. But I can see you aren’t laughing, so, oh well.

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